


Or bust.

by Treegona



Series: McHanzo week '16 [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (I don't know how else to tag that), Alternate Universe, Bad police conduct, Blackjack, Gambling, M/M, McHanzo Week, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treegona/pseuds/Treegona
Summary: Hanzo is in Las Vegas for a business deal. He tries to lose some time at a card table, but finds a companion there instead.What could possibly go wrong





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, though I've got some idea where I'd like to take this I am unlikely to write more/ever finish this.  
> It took me literally almost a month to get this much out -for which I blame school, my love of overly ambitious AUs, other prompts and procrastination. Don't expect too much from this 'verse. 
> 
> Still unbèta'd.

The soft _smack_ of cards hitting velvet drowns in the ambient noise of bells and games. Hanzo watches the man to his left double down with his last little plastic coin. The dealer nods, lays down another card and busts Hanzo’s neighbor. 

With a huff the man leaves. Hanzo is left at the table with just the dealer, as the lady they’d been playing with before cashed out a few rounds back. The dealer looks around the slowly emptying casino. 

“You mind if I smoke?” the dealer asks. It’s the most the man’s spoken to Hanzo since he sat down.

“I do not mind.” Hanzo says, though he doubts the casino owners would be happy. The other smiles, fumbles in his pockets and brings a cigarillo up to his lips and lights it with a metal lighter. It’s only in the firelight that Hanzo notices the glint of metal between the dealer’s left glove and sleeve. A prosthetic. Hanzo waits until the dealer is shuffling before he speaks.

“Did it take you long, to learn how to manipulate a deck like this?” Hanzo asks. The dealer looks up. “With your prosthetic, I mean.” He adds, realising a bit late what _manipulating a deck_ could otherwise mean. Not that the house needs an advantage like that. The dealer considers his left hand and the cards it holds.

“Ain’t much else to do out here. Not much that doesn’t end in losing more limbs, leastways.” The last part is more wry than Hanzo was expecting from idle smalltalk. The dealer lays out their cards. 

“Still, not many would take a skill like cards to a professional level. Hit me.” Hanzo’s eyes keep their focus on his cards. His new card brings his total up to 20, so he stays. 

“I wouldn’t say I’m _that_ good.” The dealer says, gesturing to their surroundings, a dim casino too far of the strip to be reputable. He flips his card, 18. A chip gets placed on Hanzo’s wager. 

“That you chose to work here isn’t a testament against your skill. You could work at a more… upscale establishment, if you so chose.” Hanzo risks hitting a 13 and busts. The dealer only humms.

“So,” the dealer begins after a few more hands. “What brings you to Vegas? Business?” he looks Hanzo over quickly “Or pleasure?”

“Business…” Hanzo answers. He cocks an eyebrow at the scruffy-faced dealer. “But I do have some time to kill, why?”

“Just curious.” The dealer says. “We don’t get too many foreigners down here.” His smile turns sly, like he’s sharing a secret “sides, people usually play for longer when they’re talking. Bet more, make more mistakes. Plus, regulars favour the tables of dealers they know.” 

Hanzo thinks on this for a moment and, just out of spite, hits his soft 17 up to 19. The dealer flips the facedown card, 20. Hanzo loses his chip. The dealer grins. 

“Should you really be telling me this, then?” Hanzo asks “It won’t work as well if I know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t think there’s much use to it, not with you.” The dealer says. “You’ll stay for as long as you like, bet as much as you planned, regardless of anything I say or do. And I don’t expect to ever have you ‘cross the table from me again.”

Hanzo shrugs, there’s no point in denying the obvious. Hanzo has no plans of ever coming back here, that’s what secure teleconferences and underlings are for. Even if he did return, Hanzo doesn’t intend to come to the same seedy casino twice. 

They play in silence for a few more rounds. The size of Hanzo’s coin pile fluctuates, but shrinks as time passes. At what seems to be a high point, roughly ¾ of his initial input remains, Hanzo leans back from the table. The dealer looks up from the cards he’s shuffling. Hanzo rolls his shoulders, runs his chips through his fingers. 

“I’m calling it a night.” Hanzo says. He looks at his watch, and amends “Or rather, morning.” The dealer pulls a wristwatch out of his pocket and he, too, checks the time. He pulls a face at the time. 

“I should’ve been off half an hour ago. Lousy cheapskates. Not like I had anything planned, but still…” the dealer grouses. The cards are put back into their box, the winnings into a separate chest. The dealer takes both when he stands. “Mind if I accompany you? I need to drop these” He raises the boxes in his hands “off.” 

 

“So,” the dealer begins after he and Hanzo have dropped off their chips and Hanzo has collected his ‘winnings’. “I’m off the clock. You said earlier that you had some time to kill, ‘sat still true?” he asks.

“Yes” Hanzo says. He isn’t exactly certain where this is going, though the other does seem to be headed somewhere.

“You wanna get a drink? With me?” the dealer –he’s off the clock, not a dealer now- asks. His smile is small but hopeful. 

For a moment or two Hanzo has no idea what to do. He has been asked out for drinks before, but always in a group and always for business reasons. Which they’ve just established this isn’t. He looks the other over, scruffy face, muscular arms, prosthetic, belly of someone with a recently decreased energy need, cowboy boots. Not unattractive, now that Hanzo is letting himself look. 

The other is starting to fidget under scrutiny, like he’d expected an answer sooner and is taking Hanzo’s silence badly. This, while fine under other circumstances, isn’t Hanzo’s intent and, as such, must be rectified. 

“That… might be nice.” Hanzo says. His eyes flick to the other’s chest. “Though you might want to lose the nametag, James.” He can’t help teasing.

James unclips his nametag and looks at it -like he’s confirming what it says. He hands it back to his co-worker behind the counter. James gestures to his outfit; red flannel, dark slacks, ridiculous boots. 

“This acceptable then? Oh, and call me Jamie, please.” _Jamie_ says. He’s still smiling like he’s keeping a secret, has been since he took off his tag. But, Hanzo thinks, life is short and Jamie’s hot. It can’t hurt too much to let a man he’ll likely never meet again keep a few secrets.

_What could possibly happen._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where the first chapter had problems with the beginning, this one hit a roadblock halfway through. I'm still not sure how I'll make any of the planned stuff happen, bc the most I have is a vague "this is why stuff is happening probably??" so don't get your hopes up too far that this will ever actually reach a conclusion.  
> But finals have just ended so I had a few days off and well I'm almost through the notebook I'm using rn so I might as well.   
> ~~also the best way to get me to write more for this is to talk to me about the fic~~
> 
> Still not bèta read, any typos or suggestions are ~~(probably)~~ welcome.

_It’s a shame,_ Hanzo thinks, _how quickly good days can turn bad._ Today, for instance, started with the soreness of a well-spent night, involved a mercifully short trip back to his hotel, a good breakfast and a peaceful morning. 

Then his “business partner” turned out to be in a far worse position than Hanzo had anticipated, the meeting got busted and he got arrested. Now a large, probably intimidating man is accusing Hanzo of crimes he didn’t commit, plans he’s not interested in and plots his family isn’t involved with. He tells the man so. The man asks if he thinks the man’s stupid. Hanzo just glares.

There’s a tap-tap-tap sound from the large mirror. The man looks up, frowns and gestures. The tapping repeats. The man sighs, shrugs and leaves. He gives Hanzo one last glare before he closes the door, like Hanzo could cause trouble while cuffed to a table (the fact that he _can_ is entirely beside the point).

Hanzo is no stranger to waiting games, his father had a history of making him wait when angered, so Hanzo knows how to pass the time. Still, it feels like no time at all has passed when the door re-opens. The man looks like words have failed him, like he wants nothing more than for life to be simple, but simplicity keeps getting ripped from him. Hanzo would sympathize, if circumstances were different. 

The man sits down across the table, drops a folder on its surface. Face-down, Hanzo can’t read the cover. The file isn’t thick, but he doesn’t think he wants to know what’s inside. The man isn’t glaring anymore. 

“A little birdie told me” the man begins, opening the file “that you’re part of the Shimada-gumi.” The man holds up a picture of what looks to be Hanzo. He can see more in the file, some of his father, some of important officers, a few of the elders (None of Genji. Hanzo hurts at the reminder). “Now, I could get you on a number of charges.” The man pauses “traveling under a fake identity, conspiracy to blackmail, conspiracy to extortion, resisting arrest, etcetera. Lucky for you, mr. Shimada, that same bird seems convinced that you’re a good guy, under the whole yakuza-boss exterior.” 

This gives Hanzo pause. There are few who concider Shimada Hanzo a good man, fewer still are active in America. None of them would have the trust of these people. 

“Even better for you is that we could use your help, your influence. If you help us you’ll probably get a reduced sentence, might even get a slap on the wrist with community service.” This was roughly what Hanzo had expected, ever since the man mentioned the Shimada group.

“Do you expect me to agree to a deal I haven’t seen the details of? This _little bird_ must not know me very well.” Hanzo intends to be scathing, hurtful. He doesn’t expect the man to smile, to laugh. 

“You can see for yourself, later. He’ll be here, insisted on talking to you before any decisions were made.” The man’s amusement grates on Hanzo’s nerves. He’s about ready to tell this man _exactly_ where he can shove this deal, regardless of curiosity, when the door opens. 

“Hey, Reyes, can you-” the newcomer cuts off. He had not, apparently, expected for Hanzo to be here. Hanzo must admit to being a little shocked himself. The last time he saw that face he was putting his clothes on with what was probably too much stealth. Then he’d take one last kiss before he left his bedfellow behind, to –he thought- never be seen again. 

“Jamie.”

=========================================================================

Jesse isn’t expecting to meet the gentleman form last night ever again; foreign, too far out of his league by half, didn’t leave a number, didn’t give a name. Jesse isn’t gonna let it get to him, would be hypocritical to fault a guy for not giving a name when Jesse lied about his own. 

Rather than dwell on the fact that The Guy didn’t even stay for breakfast, Jesse preps his report for Reyes. He’d been counting on having last night to finish it. Not that there’s much to note, but when working undercover even the absence of evidence could be immeasurably valuable. 

Late as he is, Jesse won’t get any less late if he hurries. So he takes his time getting to HQ, passing my a coffee place he likes, getting a sandwich and generally making sure he’ll be comfortable while Reyes yells his ear off about punctuality. 

It’s gone past noon by the time Jesse rolls himself into the laundromat that serves as Blackwatch’s Vegas front. Laundry gets tossed in the machine and with a few coins starts spinning happily. Down the hall, past the old payphone and restrooms is an employees-only door. Jesse enters the code. Behind the vending machine, through the biometrically locked door and down the stairs he goes.

The underground base is small, a few desks, a few offices, an interrogation room, a holding cell, an armory. It’s comparatively small, but the local Overwatch branch does a lot of work that would otherwise land on BW’s plate, so lower capacity is justified. There’s only two people currently stationed here, other than Jesse himself. One of them is sitting at her desk, doubtlessly wasting time.

“Hey Güey, aren’t you a little late?” Sombra greets. There’s a manicure set and a small army of bottles on her desk, so Jesse decides that she’s not the best person to leave his report with. 

“You know where Gabe is?” Jesse asks, because he’s almost literally incapable of being professional around this girl, the little sister he never had or wanted but somehow got anyways. Sombra looks up from the polish she’s spreading on her nails.

“Interrogation room, but are you sure…” she says, like Reyes doesn’t use interrogation rooms as his office wherever he goes. Their squad travels a lot, cells and interrogation rooms being the only true constant lends them well to make-shift offices. 

Jesse waves with his report, shoots sombre a _thanks_ and walks into the interrogation room. 

“Hey Reyes? Can you-” And then Jesse sees the man sitting across from Reyes, cuffed to the table and looking at first profoundly done with the entire situation that he’s in. The man’s face goes from irritation to muted surprise quickly, recognizing Jesse just as well as Jesse recognized him.

“Jamie.”


End file.
